Glasses Make the Man
by Syntyche
Summary: Dean has to wear glasses temporarily. Sam is mothering. Cas is fascinated.
1. Chapter 1

**So here's** this randomness I'm not even sure I should lay claim to, but I'm not sorry; writing this was definitely not the worst ten minutes I've ever spent and I got to think of Dean in glasses the entire time. Just glasses.

 **Timeline** is season 11, post _Into the Mystic_ , but there's only one slight reference that's not even a spoiler, just a reference to Dean's sleight-of-hand in that episode.

 **Rated T** so far for language and probably upcoming gratuitous paragraphs revolving around Dean in the shower.

 **Glasses Make the Man**

By: Syntyche

1.

Dean Winchester blew out an exasperated breath and scratched a hand through his short hair. The friction through the prickly dark blond bristles felt good against his rough palm, but did nothing to alleviate the pressure pounding throughout his aching skull, or stabilize his liquidy brain as it sloshed around his cranium and shot random sparks of lightning across his eyes. These newly-developed migraines were a sonofabitch, and Dean suddenly felt a long-belated pang of sympathy for Sam, though thankfully Sammy hadn't had a vision-related headache - or even a vision, really - in almost a decade.

 _Almost a decade._ God, they were getting old, and damned (again) if he didn't fudging feel every one of his thirty-seven years, and the forty extra on his soul on top of that.

Dean growled, pushed his black-rimmed glasses up off his face and crunched his tired eyes closed. Pinching the bridge of his nose and dragging his thumb and forefinger upward to press under his brows also did remarkably little, so he compensated by reaching blindly for the sweating neck of his beer with his other hand - liquid forgetfulness at its cheapest.

"This sucks," the hunter announced grumpily, "so much ass."

"What's so much ass? What are you watching _**now**_ _?_ "

 _Well, speak of the devil_ , Dean thought, then huffed a little uncomfortable laugh at the trite expression most people could use without meaning it literally and for _**real**_ , because even though it had been awhile since Samifer had made an appearance, it still got to Dean as easily as if it were just this morning. Michael trying to coerce Dean into being his earthly vessel had just pissed the elder Winchester off (even though the archangel would have succeeded eventually if Cas hadn't caught up to the perpetually self-sacrificing Winchester and beaten the shit out of him); but Lucifer going after Sam to rip him out of his meatsuit? Lucifer's smug-assed evil grin stretched across Sammy's face with the words _I'll see you soon, Dean_ ringing in his ears as he looked into the dead eyes of his future self still fucking terrified him.

Then Sam himself swung around the corner into the bunker's reading area, all immaculate hair and flannel majesty highlighted by the warm glow of the lamps, and Dean's fuzzy vision could barely make out the way Sam's face crumpled dejectedly as his little brother lowered himself about fifteen feet to plunk into the wooden chair across the table from Dean.

Sam frowned disapprovingly and a little mother hennish while he did that pitying head tilt that said _**he**_ clearly should have been the older brother, because his actual older brother was completely incapable of taking care of himself when Samuel It's- _ **Sam**_ Winchester clearly could run the entire show with one hand tied behind his back and the other carrying a wounded dog into a vet's office.

 _Grossly unfair_ , _Sammy,_ Dean tsked to himself in righteously insulted protest, but as Sam reached out a large hand to flick Dean's glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and Dean automatically drew back at the contact, he couldn't help but think that maybe sometimes Sammy was sort of right and he _**shouldn't**_ be on the front lines. The pathetic but involuntary wince/flinch/ _ **not**_ awhimper combo at a hand so close to his face Dean really tried to shove deep down: he _knew_ this hand, Sammy's hand, wasn't out to hurt him like the other one, but Dean realized with a sinking heart that Sam saw and heard his distress anyway and _please just let it go Sammy_ slipped from Dean's mind as a desperate silent prayer _._ Thank God his mountain of a brother for once in his life did.

Mostly.

"You need to leave those on," Sam chastised, looking giantly mournful and reproving in a way that made Dean squirm; Sammy trying to mother him was one of the most horrifying things Dean had ever had to endure, and that, really, was saying a lot, because even though Sam doth protest too much, Dean's little brother was definitely a stellar student in the now-defunct John Winchester School of Caring. Graduated with honors, actually, taking high marks in "All your friends are dead" and "Good, 'cause I was just being honest."

"Don't make me get Cas to tie you down," Sam threatened, then his mouth quirked wryly and he added, "he might like it too much."

Dean winced at the truth of the statement and Sam cringed a little.

"He just … really seems attached to you," Sam offered lamely, and Dean waved him off because, really, Cas sometimes holding a torch for him was more than he could think about right now, with his blurry vision and in-his- _teeth-now_ migraine and stupid whatever-the-hell-his-prescription-was that Sammy had insisted on picking up that was doing _fuck and all_ right now for his damned headache and the cheerful chorus of angel-robed aches and pains that were making a joyful noise throughout his joints and across the neat stitches Sammy had carefully laid across the flayed skin of the backs of his calves.

"What I mean is - " Sam, who never knew when to quit. Sam, because he was too smart to not be graciously gifted with the last word in every conversation.

Sam, who Dean achingly knew he would never be able to give the life he deserved, the life Dean had tried so hard to provide for him and the life he might have still had if he'd just been able to let his big brother go into the literal waiting arms of Death in a Mexican restaurant like Dean had been so prepared to do.

"Sam, enough," Dean's voice was muffled from where his head was now pillowed on his arms and Sam trailed off with a stupid nervous grin stretched across his face, like he had just a little tiny bit of babying left in him he just _**had**_ to get out even though Dean had clearly reached his limits on accepting any form of help or advice.

"You just, you gotta keep 'em on, Dean, please," Sam pleaded, and he sounded so heartfelt, like he kinda did these days post _Dean Winchester, Knight of Hell._ New and improved Sammy Winchester, feeling and emoting and watching out for his big brother like he'd been born to it, like Dean was the one who had been bundled up and shoved into _Sam's_ arms and become the single most awesome and terrible responsibility Sam had ever been given. _"_ Just for a while longer."

"I look like a dork," Dean mumbled around his plaid barrier, relishing the softness of his battered sleeve against the scraped skin of his cheek. He was going to fall asleep if he didn't move soon, but moving had suddenly stretched into an impossible task - insurmountable, even. Gonna take a Hand of God to move him now. "A hipster dork douche bag," he added through numbing lips, eyelids heavy and he was sinking, sinking so fast, consciousness gleefully abandoning the ship of painful awareness. "Or a Ghostfacer."

"You always look like a dork," Sam opined, and there was a new hint of fondness to his tone that Dean didn't think he'd ever get used to hearing. Sam reached for Dean's beer then seemed to think the better of it, mumbling something about venereal disease that had Dean's hand flopping up in a vaguely protesting manner even though the maneuver seemed to drain any flailing reserves that hadn't yet made it to the lifeboats.

"Dude," Dean muttered sleepily, "seriously?"

OoOoOoOo

Okay, yeah, Sam assented reluctantly, it _was_ a low blow. Dean had, as far as Sam knew - which was already and would forever be _too much_ \- always been careful about his tryst partners; well, except that one time with the Amazon chick because _Dean_.

So Sam switched tactics, hoping Dean would let it slide, knowing he probably would because after all these years _protect Sammy_ was still his brother's irrepressible driving force. It wasn't a realization that came guilt-free for Sam these days, though he could regretfully confess he hadn't always respected or appreciated his brother's not entirely self-appointed burden.

"Should you even be drinking beer with your meds?" Sam pointed out, a little self-righteously because not only had he had to push Dean into just getting his damn prescription filled, he also now had to ration the little pills so his brother wouldn't just live with the pain like usual and sell the medication once he had it in his greedy hands. Dean had had a field day swiping prescriptions from the nursing home a few weeks ago and Sam had pitched a holy fit when he'd accidentally stumbled upon Dean's little black market pharmacy business. Dean reasonably pointing out that neither of them actually had jobs with which to earn actual money and he'd done worse for less did not appease the newly-protective Sam in the slightest.

"You're right," Dean agreed, sleep-dulled and slow and lacking every spark of life that, to Sam, made Dean _Dean_ , as he finally lifted his face from his arms, the hopeful gleam in his green irises dulled by the unfamiliar lenses covering them. Before a startled Sam could even squeak out a surprised, "I am?" Dean muttered, "I should switch to whiskey."

Sam _hmph_ ed an annoyed grumble. "Yes. That's exactly what I meant."

 **OoOoOoOoOo**

So, yikes, the Dean-wearing-only-glasses plot bunny from a few minutes ago has morphed into Dean getting out of the shower all wet skin and drops of water … I'll be honest, I expected my first Supernatural story to be a lot less … this, but whatever.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Early Cas/Dean interaction is definitely my favorite time frame, and this fic should more rightly be set in season four or five, but it references the bunker and a few things that happened in season eleven, so that's when this will stay. I do have a few other plot bunnies in the works, though, because damn if those two aren't just made for writing about in all their awkward and loyal glory.

 **Glasses Make the Man**

By: Syntyche

2.

It was still freakin' weird not having to worry about leaving enough hot water for Sammy to shower later, a necessity Dean had long borne with every battered motel stop since Sam had learned he could choose his own hair care products that didn't already come free with the room. Even at a young age, Sammy had been more than a bit of a prima donna and had required a lot of hot water, his own personal shampoo, and _alone time_ to complete the entirety of his grooming routine, and that had not lessened in the slightest as he'd gotten older, with embarrassingly smooth and perfect hair that was much less _Zestfully clean_ like Dean's and much more _Maybe it's Maybelline_.

Dean sank further into the shower's warm embrace, willing away the sleep crowding against the backs of his eyes that had promised to help him vacation from the ache of his battered body but had instead totally screwed him over and delivered the usual Technicolor travel pamphlet of nightmare-splashed destinations instead: _Visit beautiful wooded Purgatory! Fight for your life among our lovely pines!_ or _Sunbathe near one of Hell's lakes of fire! We can't wait to chew the flesh from your bones again!_

 _ **Nope**_. Just _**nope**_. Dean shut that line of thinking down _hard_ , pushing it away, locking it up, jamming it into one of the bunker's hundreds of hideyholes for the unwanted and weird. Nightmares, napping dreams, I-blinked-for-a-second-and-I-was-back-there, he couldn't help. Thinking about it while he was awake and aware? Just no. The kicker was he just couldn't seem to forget. Couldn't completely brush them aside, couldn't move on. Could still function, yes, no choice there, but when it came to _not_ occasionally still hearing Alastair's leering tongue against his ear or the hollow clicking of the gun Sammy was trying to empty into his skull, well, Dean could no more escape those half-unearthed memories, breaking up the landscape of his mind like bones and broken pottery pulled up by eroding flood waters, than he could imagine himself having a normal, well-adjusted life.

Dean pressed his forehead against the cool tile, a sharp juxtaposition to the muggy air fogging around his body from the shower's steam. The temperature change didn't help his headache or blurred vision as much as he would have liked, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

God, the bunker was _perfect._ Plenty of hot water, his own room, and he now had more stuff than just what he could stow in the back of his Baby, _**plus**_ he could make his own damn bacon cheeseburgers whenever he wanted that had somehow miraculously even earned Sammy's salad-shaking, calorie-counting exacting seal of giant approval.

It was glorious. So damn glorious.

Warm water kissed his skin, beading and sliding and dripping to hit the shower floor tile and swirl down the drain. Dean didn't even want to think of all the clogged motel drains Sammy had left behind over the years, or the poor hot motel maids in their little maid uniforms that had had to dig those gigantor-sized hairballs out of the showers.

Dean blinked, reached clumsily for the soap. He was really thinking too much about Sam right now, especially while in the shower, but even now it was hard to help, with years upon years of ingrained _protectSammy/watchoutforSammy/SammySammySammy_ drilled into his character since he'd barely been old enough to carry his little brother. All the shit they'd been through since, all the times Sam had walked out on him to make himself a better, shinier life without his big brother, it didn't matter. It just didn't. He would protect Sammy till the day he died permanently, and he'd accepted that years ago.

Dean ran the dwindling bar of soap across his slick skin, already adding a mental note to pick up more - along with beer and more beer - the next time he was out. He'd have to check his PO box too: Wetblanket Whinypants Sam had shut down Dean's lucrative prescription hustling, but that didn't mean Dean was out of funding options. He literally couldn't afford to be, and Sam really should either pitch in or shut up: as bitchy as Sammy had always been about Dean's liberal use of liberated credit cards, his little brother hadn't once hesitated to happily spend or charge any money Dean had been able to scrounge up by whatever means necessary at any point in their lives. Dean hadn't exactly had the luxury of being picky about where the money to keep Sammy fed and clothed and Dad patched up had come from, and could only count himself lucky that he'd never had a chance to sit down and feel properly guilty about how he'd provided for his family then or now.

Saved him a hell of a lot of time to feel guilty about pretty much everything else, though, so win win. Seriously, how the angels could have even considered him a viable contender for an angelic vessel was beyond him: his body and soul were so stained from this life even Cas' occasional wiping the slate clean couldn't really hide the damage. More like, at best misdirect the audience into thinking there was actually something worth seeing here.

Dean blinked again, shoving a hand across his eyes in a completely useless attempt to push away the blurriness that had taken up residence where his ability to see clearly had once been. He probably should have rinsed the soap off his hand 'cause it stung a little, but he didn't really care, ignored the slight pain that narrowed his eyes and squinted furiously at the tiny bottle of motel shampoo sitting on the shower ledge as though his will alone could bring the miniscule words into focus.

It didn't. Stupid fucking go-for-the-head attack that he, ironically, should have seen coming, but Sammy had shouted something - probably, also ironically, "look out" - and Dean had already been on his knees, blood soaking through the back of his shredded jeans (as he mourned the loss of the incredibly comfortable jeans more so than the thickly lashed skin beneath the tattered denim.)

Dean sigh-growled, turned so the stream of water hit the back of his shoulders instead, waiting until he was good and damned ready before twisting off the water and groping blindly for a towel that somehow wasn't where he'd sworn he'd left it slung over the shower stall door. His glasses, however, were exactly and mockingly where he'd left them; he pushed a hand through his damp hair to get what water out he could, then down his arms, sides, and ass, more carefully his legs, and figured that was the best he was going to do as far as minimizing the puddles he was about to leave on the bathroom tile. He put his glasses on - cause Dean Winchester was all about _safety_ \- and stepped out into the muggy air of the bathroom.

And fuck it if his glasses weren't fogged up before he was even halfway out of the shower; all he could see was a tan blur in front of him that looked vaguely person-shaped -

" _ **Cas?**_ " was the undignified and completely unmanly yelp that came from him as his dripping and solidly naked form almost collided with the angel who had gone straight-up creeper right in his bathroom. Dean yanked his glasses off - which didn't help clear his vision in the slightest - and put them back on - also no help - and floundered around for his towel, snatching it from Cas' hand when the angel politely held the missing item out to him.

"Dean," Cas replied seriously, sounding completely unperturbed and in fact a little pleased to be of use. Dean wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked the trailing edge in as Cas peered at him intently. "You have glasses on," the angel announced, sounding quite proud of his skills of observation.

"Yes." Dean swatted at the hand blob that was currently drifting across his fuzzy vision, coming closer than he was at all comfortable with. "What are you doing? Don't touch them."

"You look … different," Cas said, and Dean could hear the frown in his voice, as if he were trying to piece together this new and mysterious side of Dean, the _bespectacled_ side. "Smarter," Cas added thoughtfully, still reaching for the black frames, head tilted like if he could _just figure this out_ the mysteries of the universe would suddenly make sense.

"Stop trying to touch my face," Dean backed up a step, away from the waving blurriness that was Angel Glasses Inspector #3. "And get out," he added, not sharply because Cas was Cas no matter whether leviathan or delusions of grandeur, but a little sharply because he couldn't seem to help ribbing Cas. It was like how he'd used to be able to tease Sam, before things between them got so strained and difficult and exhausting.

A long finger almost jabbed him in the eye and Dean yelped and swatted the angel away. "Cas, I mean it!"

"I would like to, Dean," Cas said agreeably, eyes squinched and thoughtful, hand still so close to Dean's face the hunter was actually nervous, respirations speeding up without his permission. "But it's so difficult not to want to touch you - your glasses," he clarified and there was something in his normal monotone that shifted but Dean couldn't identify. "All of your glasses," he added seriously, wavering hand still frozen inches from Dean's dripping form.

"Cas. _Get out._ "

"Of course, Dean," was the immediate reply, but when Dean squinted bleary eyes the trenchcoated angel still stood patiently and uncomfortably close - _personal space_ never being a concept Cas had fully grasped.

Dean heaved a massive sigh, heated skin burning in mild embarrassment as he shoved past Cas to the sink and his toothbrush. Dean was pretty sure he wasn't displaying anything the angel hadn't seen before, but still …

"No, you are correct, Dean," Cas confirmed affably, "In fact, I have on numerous times seen you - "

"Uh, no, Cas," Dean interrupted, "Just … stop … saying what I'm thinking. It's rude."

"I beg your pardon, Dean," Cas murmured apologetically, "It's certainly not my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"We're a little past that, Cas," Dean mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, but he just couldn't help the smile that cracked the corner of his mouth. "Listen, Cas, buddy," and he cringed at that, "I'm just gonna finish up here and then we can, uh, do whatever you came to do out in the library."

"Of course, Dean. I will see you momentarily." Cas actually moved a fraction toward the door before he paused, looked back at Dean. "Will you be wearing your glasses?"

 **OoOoOoOoOo**


End file.
